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"Few are the hearts,
(nor theirs of kindliest frame,)
On whom fair Nature holds not such a claim;
And oft, in after-life, some simple thing -
A bank of primroses in early Spring -
The tender scent which hidden violets yield -
The sight of cowslips in a meadow-field -
Or young laburnum's pendant yellow chain -
May bring the favourite play-place back again!
Our youthful mates are gone; some dead, some changed,
With whom that pleasant spot was gladly ranged;
Ourselves, perhaps, more altered e'en than they -
But there still blooms the blossom-showering May;
There still along the hedge-row's verdant line
The linnet sings, the thorny brambles twine;
Still in the copse a troop of merry elves
Shout - the gay image of our former selves;
And still, with sparkling eyes and eager hands,
Some rosy urchin high on tiptoe stands,
And plucks the ripest berries from the bough -
Which tempts a different generation now!
"What though no real beauty haunt that spot,
By graver minds beheld and noticed not?
Can we forget that once to our young eyes
It wore the aspect of a Paradise?
No; still around its hallowed precinct lives
The fond mysterious charm that memory gives;
The man recalls the feelings of the boy,
And clothes the meanest flower with freshness and with joy.
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